^  JlCc^^      -      ^V-«i---^ 


v/  /  iri  ty   __ 


:7/.  ^ 


PRESIDENTIAL  CAMPAIGN  MEDALS. 


343 


wide-awake  hat,  and  bears  the  inscrip- 
tion "I  am  ready."  Another,  worn  by 
the  Hartford  Wide-a-Wakes,  shows  on  its 
obverse  (40)  one  of  them  in  full  uniform 
carrying  a  lantern,  and  on  the  reverse 
another  bearing  a  torch.  The  Lincoln 
silver  medal  referred  to  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  Clay  pieces  proclaims  the 
princijile  of  "Free  Territory  for  a  free 
People."  Medals  relating  Lincoln's 
struggles  in  early  life  seem  to  have  been 
popular — there  are  a  number  referring 
to  him  as  the  "great  Rail-splitter  of  the 
West "  (38)  or  the  "  Rail-splitter  of  1830  " 
(43),  with  designs  enclosing  the  inscrip- 
tion in  a  rail-fence  or  showing  a  wood- 
scene  with  Lincoln  engaged  in  splitting- 
rails.  Hamlin's  name  is  on  one  medal 
combined  with  Lincoln's  as  follows : 
"Abra-Ham  Lin-Coln."  Characteristic 
inscriptions  in  the  Lincoln  series  are  : 
"Honest  Abe  of  the  West."  "Honest 
old  Abe."  "No  more  Slave  Territory." 
"Free  Homes  for  Free  Men."  On  those 
issued  during  his  second  Presidential 
campaign  we  read  :  "If  I  am  re-elected 
President,  Slavery  must  be  abolished 
with  the  re-union  of  States."  "  Free- 
dom to  all  men.  Union." 

The  "  rail-splitter  of  1830  "  was  the 
party-splitter  of  1860.  For  on  the  ques- 
tion involved  in  his  candidacy  the  Dem- 
ocratic party  spUt,  one  faction  nominat- 
ing Stephen  A.  Douglas  (41),  the  other, 
Breckinridge  (42),  who  represented  the 
extreme  Southern  pro-slavery  views  ; 
while  the  American  Party  rechristened  it- 
self the  ConstituLional  Union  party  and 
nominated  John  Bell  (39).  Campaign 
medals  were  worn  by  the  partisans  of  all 
these  candidates. 

Lincoln  was  opposed  in  1864,  besides 
by  McCleUan  (44  obv.  and  rev.),  by  a 
section  of  his  own  party  which  nomi- 
nated Fremont  and  Cochrane,  who,  how- 
ever, withdrew  in  the  autumn.  One 
medal  (45),  with  a  military  profile  of  Fre- 
mont and  "  Free  Speech,  Free  Press, 
Fremont "  on  its  obverse  and  a  battle 
scene  with  Fremont  bearing  a  flag  on 
the  reverse,  is  a  serious  memento  of  this 
ridiculous  ejiisode.  A  characteristic 
McCleUan  piece  is  oval  shaped  and  was 
evidently  attached  to  a  pin.  It  shows 
McCleUan  on  horseback,  and  bears  the 
inscription  :  "Little  Mac  for  President. 
Spades  are  Tramps." 


With  the  Lincoln  medals  the  series 
ceases  to  be  noteworthy.  The  medals 
issued  during  subsequent  campaigns 
are  neither  so  varied  nor  so  interesting 
in  design  as  those  stnick  off  during  the 
Lincoln  or  previous  canvasses.  The 
only  reason  that  can  be  assigned  for 
this  is  the  change  in  methods  political. 
Party  organization  has  been  so  devel- 
oped, party  discipline  is  so  effective  that 
an  army  of  voters  can  be  marshaUed  at 
shori  notice,  so  that  now  a  canvass  is  a 
succession  of  vast  processions.  Facili- 
ties of  transportation  also  enable  the 
voters  in  rural  districts  to  unite  in 
large  bodies  for  imposing  demonstra- 
tions. As  a  result  smaU  cheap  medals 
bearing  as  a  rule  merely  the  profile 
of  the  Presidential  and  Vice  Presiden- 
tial candidates  are  struck  off  in  large 
numbers. 

Of  the  numerous  Grant  medals  (46)  in 
the  Political  series  but  few  are  political 
campaign  medals,  and  none  of  these  is  of 
special  interest  ;  and  the  same  may  be 
said  of  the  Seymour  (47)  and  Greeley 
(48)  medals.  Among  the  TUden  medals 
were  several  caricatures  (49). 

There  are  only  two  interesting  medals 
from  the  Garfield-Hancock  campaign, 
one  showing  the  former  on  a  mule  on 
the  tow-path  and  "  Canal  boy  1845  ; 
President  1881 "  (50),  the  other,  imitated 
from  the  "Salt  River"  Harrison  medal, 
showing  a  steamboat  with  "329,"  the 
number  on  which  Garfield's  opponents 
rang  the  changes  so  persistently,  on  the 
paddle-box,  and  the  inscription  :  "Good 
for  a  free  passage  on  the  steamer  Han- 
cock, Capt.  English,  Nov.  2,  1880,  for 
Salt  River  direct,  Chinese  Line." 

In  our  days  the  newspapers  record 
almost  every  detail  of  a  pohtical  canvass, 
and  any  future  historian  desiring  to 
enter  into  the  spirit  in  which  our  can- 
vasses are  conducted — their  issues,  lit- 
erature, rhetoric,  and  acrimony — would 
find  it  reflected  in  ova-  daUy  journals. 
But  to  any  one  who  wishes  to  become 
conversant  with  the  pohtical  methods 
of  the  times  before  the  press  had  ob- 
tained its  present  status  as  a  news- 
gatherer,  the  series  of  poUtical  campaign 
medals  is  most  helpfiil.  For  each  rim 
encircles  a  bit  of  history,  and  the  series 
as  a  whole  forms  a  record  in  metal  of 
our  national  politics. 


A  SECOND-HAND  STORY. 
By  H.  C.  Bunuer. 


I  HAVE  a  small  book,  and  a  small  story, 
that  I  bought,  the  two  together,  for 
fifteen  cents.  He  thought,  I  suppose, 
that  he  was  seUiug  the  book  alone  ;  and 
I  must  admit  that  it  was  but  a  shabby 
sort  of  book.  You  will  hardly  find  it  in 
the  catalogues.  It  is  not  a  first  edition. 
It  is  not  a  tall  copy — it  is  a  squat  little 
volume,  in  truth.  It  bears  a  modest 
imprimatur. 

The  title  page  reads  thus  : 


i  P    S    A    L    M    S 


I  N    T  H  E 


4.  CAREFULLY  SUITED 

*  T  O    T  H  E 

X  CHRISTIAN  WORSHIP 

+  UNITED  STATES  ot  AMERICA. 

* 

4,  BEING 

* 

«r  AN  IHPROVFMf  NT  OF  THF   OLD   VERSION 

*  OF  THE   PSALMS  OF  DAVID. 
+ 

*  Allowed  by  tlierererend  Synod  of  New- 
^  York,  and  PlnUdciphia,  to  be  ufed  in 
.{.  Churches  ajid  privaic  Families. 


All  tiiugj  'written  hi  tK'  Any  0/  M(ifei-, 
and  the  pic/phcli,  nfij  the  pfahiiit  CHU' 
cermn^  me,  7niifl  be  fulJitUd. 


* 

+ 

+ 

+ 

+ 
+ 

* 
+ 
+ 
+ 

+ 


%  ELI7.ABETHT0WKU 

•!•   PuMTED  Bv  SHEPARD  KOLLOCK. 


KJJCCXCI. 


"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  book- 
seller, as  I  leaned  over  the  "  second-hand 
counter,"  and  held  it  up  to  him.  "Fif- 
teen cents,  if  you  want  it.  Now,  here's 
something  you  ought  to  see- " 

But  I  did  not  care  to  see  it.  I  took 
my  fifteen  cents'  worth  away,  and  asked 
myself  in  what  Elizabethtown  it  was 
printed  ;  what  manner  of  man  Shepard 
KoUock  might  have  been  ;  but  most, 
what  human  being  owned  this  little 
book,  handled  it,  read  it,  sang  from  it — 
belonged  to  it,  in  short,  as  we  all  belong 
to  our  books. 

I  am  told  that  to  the  man  who  has 
determined  to  hand  his  conscience  over 


to  the  keejjing  of  an  established  chui'ch 
this  much  liberty  of  personal  choice  is 
conceded  :  that  he  may  elect  to  which 
one  of  the  established  churches  he  will 
make  delivery.  Of  this  initial  liberty 
of  personal  choice  I  shall  take  advantage 
in  my  search  after  truth.  To  discover 
the  true  history  of  this  volume,  I  must 
accept  certain  premises,  and  di-aw  con- 
clusions therefrom.  If  the  conclusions 
are  wi'ong,  the  premises  are  clearly  to 
blame,  and  I  am  not. 

Now,  I  find,  on  the  second  page  be- 
hind the  title,  this  official  commission 
of  the  book  : 

Philadelphia,  May  14M,  1787.- 

THE  Synod  of  New-Turk  and  Phi.. 
laiielpbia  did  allow  Dr.  H^'atls's  Imt~. 
talion  of  Davids  %  F/almi,  as  rcvifedhy 
Mr.  Barloui  to  iejung  in  the  Cburcbei. 
end  Families  under  their  care. 

ExtraHed  from  the  records  of  Synod,  iy 

GEORGE  DUFFIELD,  D.  D. 
Staled  Clerk  of  Syaci. 

Hence  we  may  set  out  with  the  almost 
certain  knowledge  that  this  copy  of  Mr. 
Barlow's  revision  was  owned  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, in  New  York,  or  in  New  Jersey, 
tucked  away  between  them.  If  the 
owner  were  a  Pennsylvanian,  why  did 
the  book  not  drift,  in  the  end,  to  Phila- 
delj^hia  instead  of  to  New  York  ? — there 
are  book-shops  in  Philadelphia,  I  think. 
I  found  it  in  New  York,  yet  I  hardly 
think  it  was  first  sold  there.  Dr.  Watts 
must  have  been  tongueless  among  the 
Dutch  chru-ches  in  1791,  and  he  could 
hardly  have  been  made  welcome  among 
the  modish  Church-of-England  sinners 
in  Trinity  or  St.  John's.  It  was  in  New 
Jersey,  then,  that  she  lived — for  I  have 
decided  that  this  book  was  owned  by  a 
woman  and  that  her  name  was  Prudence 
— in  New  Jersey,  perhaps  on  some  rich 
lowland  along  the  calm  Passaic. 

I  have  a  fancy  that  I  know  the  place. 


A  SECOND-HAND  STORY. 


345 


It  is  a  small  town,  set  between  the  river 
and  the  softly  rising  hills  that  slope  and 
fall  and  slope  and  fall  to  the  feet  of  the 
Orange  Mountains.  Half-way  up  the 
long  main  street  lies  a  httle  triangle  of 
green,  bounded  by  posts  and  chains,  that 
is  called  "  the  square."  The  church 
stands  on  the  highest  side,  a  solid  build- 
ing of  reddish-bi'own  stone,  with  plain 
rectangular  windows,  that  look  blankly 
out  from  their  many  panes  of  pale-green 
flint  glass.  It  has  a  squat  wooden  spire, 
painted  white — a  white  that  has  been 
softened  and  made  pleasant  to  the  eye 
by  the  ministrations  of  the  weather. 
Directly  opjjosite  the  church  is  a  large 
Square  house  of  brick,  with  stone  about 
the  doors  and  windows,  and  with  a  little 
white-jDainted  Grecian  jjortico — on  that 
the  j^aint  is  ever  white  and  new,  defying 
the  kindly  hand  of  time.  That  is  the 
Squire's  house,  and  that  is  where  Pru- 
dence lives. 

There  are  trees  all  around  the  square, 
and  trees  in  it — chestnuts  and  graceful 
beeches  and  young  oaks — trees  that 
seem  to  bring  something  of  the  wood 
into  the  heart  of  the  town.  You  will 
not  see  the  great  drooping  arbors  of  the 
New  England  elms,  set  at  regidar  inter- 
vals, massive,  shaiaely  and  ui'ban.  These 
are  children  of  the  forest,  not  afraid  to 
venture  into  the  little  town  and  to  scatter 
themselves  about  her  grassy  streets. 

Their  boughs  that  wave  in  the  sun- 
light, are  almost  the  only  things  that 
move,  early  of  a  summer  Sunday  morn- 
ing. The  front-doors  are  closed  that  of 
a  week-day  open  wide  their  broad  ujjper 
halves.  There  are  no  people  in  the 
streets.  Everybody  is  w-ithin  doors, 
making  ready  for  church.  Even  the 
dogs  refrain  from  running  about  the 
highways  and  byways  on  the  aimless 
errands  which  dogs  affect ;  they  lie  in 
the  sun  on  the  doorsteps  and  wait  the 
appearance  of  that  human  world  of 
which  they  are  but  an  humble  auxiliarj'. 
Perhaps  Prudence,  pinning  her  necker- 
chief before  her  dressing-glass,  gives  a 
look  through  her  window — hers  is  the 
little  room  over  tlie  front  door — the 
window  with  the  fanlight  at  the  top — 
and  smiles  to  see  the  sunshine  and  the 
billowing  leaves  flickering  red  and 
green  ;  but  she  is  the  only  woman  in 
the  town  who  has  a  thought  to  give  to 


anything  save  the  great  business  of  Sun- 
day morning  tiring. 

At  last  the  old  seston  stalks  across 
the  square,  and  opens  the  church  doors 
with  his  huge  iron  key.  Out  of  the 
sunlight  he  vanishes  into  the  black  hol- 
low of  the  vestibule  ;  there  is  silence  for 
a  moment,  then  the  husky  whirr  of  the 
rojse  over  the  wooden  wheel  on  high, 
and  the  bell  clangs  out  brazen  and  loud, 
and  the  startled  birds  rise  for  a  second 
above  the  tree-tops,  and  Sunday  life 
begins. 

You  will  not  see  Pii;dence  until  all 
the  townspeople  and  the  fanners  from 
the  country  round  about  are  seated  in 
the  pews — not  until  the  Dominie  ap- 
pears at  the  side  door  of  the  church. 
Then  the  broad  portal  of  the  Squire's 
house  springs  open  and  the  Squire 
marches  forth,  looking  larger  than  ever 
in  his  Sunday  black.  There  is  a  som- 
bre grandeur  about  the  very  silk  stock- 
ings on  his  sturdy  old  legs.  Behind 
him  comes  Csesar — black  Caesar — his 
wool  as  white  as  the  Squii-e's  jjowdered 
wig.  Caesar  has  his  kit  in  his  hand  ;  he 
plays  the  first  fiddle  in  the  choir,  and 
thereby  enjoys  a  proud  eminence  above 
all  the  other  negroes  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Moreover,  he  has  been  a  free 
man  since  the  first  Squire  died. 

Prudence  walks  by  her  father's  side. 
The  white  neckerchief  is  folded  over  her 
breast ;  her  dress  is  gray  ;  her  eyes  are 
gray  and  dovelike.  She  holds  her  hymn- 
book  and  a  spray  of  caraway  in  one 
hand  ;  the  other  lifts  her  clinging  skirt. 
The  Squire  looks  straight  ahead  as  he 
walks,  and  Caesar  looks  straight  at  the 
Squire's  back.  But  Prudence's  soft 
eyes  wander  a  little.  Perhai3S  she  is  not 
sorry  that  the  Squire  walks  slowly ; 
that  she  has  these  few  moments  under 
the  trees  and  among  the  bii'ds  before 
the  great  bare  hollow  of  the  church 
swallows  her  up  for  the  two  long  hours 
of  service. 

As  Prudence  sits  in  her  pew  to-day — 
the  front  pew  to  the  left  of  the  aisle  as 
you  face  the  Dominie — she  is  conscious 
that  there  is  among  the  worshippers  a 
concentration  of  fui-tive  attention  upon 
the  pew  behind  her — the  one  where  old 
Jan  Onderdonck  used  to  sit  until  he 
went  to  finish  his  mortal  slumbers  in 
the   graveyard.     She  does   not  wonder 


346 


A  SECOND-HAND  STORY. 


who  may  be  there  ;  she  is  too  good  a 
gii'l  for  that.  But  she  cannot  help  re- 
membering that  she  will  know  when 
church  is  out.  And  now  she  rises  to 
sing  in  the  hymn,  and — she  must  have 
been  wondering,  in  spite  of  herself,  or 
why  is  there  such  a  gmlty  start  and 
thrill  under  the  white  neckerchief  when 
she  hears  the  strong  baritone  voice  rise 
resonant  behind  her  ?  The  httle  brown 
hymn-book  trembles  in  her  hands  ;  she 
knows  she  is  a  wicked  girl,  and  yet — 
perhaps  it  is  part  of  her  wickedness  that 
she  cannot  feel  properly  unhappy.  Nay, 
she  knows  there  is  a  jubilant  lilt  in  her 
voice  as  it  joins  the  strange  voice  and 
sings : 

"  Happy  the  heart  where  graces  reign, 
Where  love  inspires  the  breast ; 
Love  is  the  bi'ightest  of  the  train, 
And  strengthens  all  the  rest." 

Her  father  turned  half  around  where 
he  stood,  as  a  pillar  of  the  church  turn- 
ing on  its  base,  and  gazed  at  the 
stranger.  Prudence  could  not  turn  ; 
she  could  only  glance  shyly  at  her  father. 
He  had  his  Sunday  face  on,  and  she 
knew  that  he  would  not  relax  a  muscle 
of  it  until  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the 
Dominie  in  the  porch. 

I  do  not  know  what  else  Pinidence 
sang  that  day  out  of  the  brown  hymn- 
book.  Perhaps  it  was  "  The  Shortness 
and  Misery  of  Life,"  or  "  Tlie  World's 
Three  Chief  Temptations,"  or  "  Corrujjt 
Nature  from  Adam,"  or  "  The  Song  of 
Zacharias,  and  the  3Iessage  of  John  the 
Baptist ; "  but  I  do  know  that,  as  she 
was  going  out  of  church.  Prudence  did 
something  she  had  never  done  since,  ten 
years  before,  her  father  jjut  her  dead 
mother's  hymn-book  into  her  small  hand 
and  told  her  it  was  hers.  She  left  it 
lying  on  the  seat  behind  her.  It  did  not 
lie  there  long  ;  she  was  not  two  steps 
down  the  aisle  before  the  tall,  broad- 
shouldered  young  man  in  the  pew  be- 
hind had  presented  it  to  her  with  a  low 
bow.  She  took  it  with  a  frightened 
courtesy,  and  went  down  the  aisle,  her 
heart  beating  hard.  Indeed,  now,  there 
was  no  doubt  abotit  it.  She  was  sinful, 
perverse,  and  wholly  unregenerate  to 
the  last  degree.  She  wondered  if  in- 
iquity so  possessed  other  girls.  And  just 
in  that  moment  when  he  bowed  she  had 


noticed  that  he  had  fine  eyes,  and  that 
he  wore  his  black  clothes  with  an  air  of 
distinction.  Of  what  use  was  it  to  go  to 
church  at  all,  if  such  sinfulness  was  in- 
grained in  her  ? 

The  disturbed  dust  was  settling  down 
on  the  i^ulpit  cushion  once  more.  The 
Dominie  and  the  Squire  stood  in  front 
of  the  church.  The  Dominie  was  jdow- 
dering  himself  with  snuff,  as  he  always 
did  after  a  hard  sermon,  and  waiting  for 
his  regular  invitation  to  dinner.  The 
Squire,  however,  was  not  as  prompt  as 
usual  to-day.  His  eyes  followed  a  broad- 
shouldered  figure  in  black  clothes  of 
foreign  cut,  that  strolled  idly  through 
the  square. 

"  Dr.  Kuypers,"  he  finally  demanded, 
"  who  is  that  young  man?  " 

"  That,"  said  the  Dominie,  as  he  put 
his  snuff-box  in  his  pocket,  "is  Rick 
Onderdonck,  or,  I  might  better  say, 
Master  Richard  Onderdonck,  the  son  of 
our  old  friend  Jan  Onderdonck,  now  at 
rest.  He  has  been  these  four  years  in 
Gei-many,  where  he  has  learnt  a  pretty 
deal  of  Latin,  I  must  say  for  him." 

The  Squire  shook  his  head. 

"A  godless  country  for  a  boy,"  he 
said.  "I  hope  he  got  no  worse  than 
Latta  there." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  Dominie,  indul- 
gently ;  "  I  find  him  a  good  youth,  and 
uncorrupted.  He  came  home  but  yes- 
terday, and  stays  with  me  till  his  father's 
house  shall  be  aired.  He  wiU  work  the 
old  farm,  he  says,  and  I  trust  his  Latin 
may  do  him  no  haitn." 

Dr.  Kuypers  and  the  Squire  bowed 
with  solemn  courtesy.  "  I  shall  be  hon- 
ored with  youi"  company  at  dinner,  and 
with  that  of  Mr.  Onderdonk."  Then 
he  dropped  to  a  simple  week-day  tone  : 
"  Four  years.  Dominie,  four  years,  is  it, 
since  you  and  I  and  Jan  Onderdonk 
sat  at  dinner  together  ?  Yes,  bring  the 
lad." 

And  Prudence,  during  this  conversa- 
tion, stood  at  her  father's  elbow  and  said 
nothing  at  all,  as  was  decorous  in  a 
young  girl. 

Dr.  Kuypers  was  a  terrible  man  in 
the  pulpit,  and  a  kind-heai"ted  and  merry 
man  out  of  it.  The  Sunday  dinners  in 
the  great  brick  house  were  always  the 
brighter    for    his  coming ;    and  if    this 


A  SECOND-HAND  STORY. 


347 


dinner  seemed  to  Prudence  the  bright- 
est she  had  ever  known,  the  credit  must 
have  been  due  to  Dr.  Kuypers,  for  young 
Mr.  Onderdonck  was  certainly  most 
quiet  and  modest,  and  contented  him- 
seK  for  the  most  jjart  with  giving  fitting 
and  well-considered  answers  to  the  ques- 
tions of  the  elder  gentlemen  as  to  his 
studies  and  the  state  of  Europe. 

The  dinner  came  to  an  end  long  be- 
fore Prudence  wished  it.  And  yet,  at 
the  end,  there  was  a  new  and  delightful 
experience  for  her,  which  she  fled  to  her 
room  to  dream  over. 

She  was  only  nineteen ;  she  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  but  it  was  only  as  she 
had  sat  since  she  was  a  little  girl,  just 
learning  to  pour  her  father's  coffee, 
and  she  had  always  been  a  little  girl  to 
the  Squire  and  the  Dominie.  But  to- 
day, when  she  rose  from  her  seat,  Mr. 
Onderdonck  rose  too,  and  hui'ried  to 
open  the  door  for  her,  and  bowed  low 
as  she  went  out — and,  O,  wondrous  day  ! 
— as  if  this  were  not  joy  enough,  she 
saw  over  her  shoulder  that  her  father 
and  the  Dominie  rose  too,  and  stood 
until  the  door  had  closed  behind  her. 

Mr.  Rick  Onderdonck  was  modest 
even  after  Mistress  Prudence  had  left 
the  room.  I  think  that  the  deference  of 
young  men  toward  their  elders  will  not 
die  out  ill  this  world  while  old  men  have 
fail"  daughters.  Mr.  Onderdonck  took 
his  portion  of  post-prandial  schnapps, 
and  patiently  let  the  Squire  and  the 
Dominie  whet  their  rusty  Latin  on  his 
brand-new  learning. 

Of  covu'se,  Prudence  married  Kick 
Onderdonck.  That  was  written  from 
the  beginning.  Why  should  it  not  be 
so  ?  What  had  the  Sqaii'e  to  say  against 
the  pretensions  of  young  Rick  Onder- 
donck, heriter  of  all  the  square  miles  of 
green  upland  that  had  once  belonged 
to  old  Jan,  owner  of  seventy  slaves,  a 
%drtuous  and  a  comely  man,  with  very 
pretty  manners  in  the  presence  of  his 
elders?  Why,  nothing.  He  might,  in- 
deed, have  said  that  the  house  would  be 
lonelier  than  he  had  thought  without 
Prudence  silently  flitting  here  and  there  ; 
but  it  was  not  the  Squire's  way  to  give 
such  reasons  as  that :  and  so  the  young 
people  were  betrothed  early  in  the 
spring  that   followed    that  first  winter 


when  the  neighborhood  remarked  that 
Rick  Onderdonck  had  taken  to  going  to 
the  Squire's  house  more  than  his  father 
ever  did. 

I  don't  think  the  hymn-book  saw 
much  of  their  courtship,  although,  to 
be  sure,  Mr.  Onderdonk  probably  went 
to  church  quite  regularly  dui-ing  that 
period  of  probation.  But  she  sang  in 
the  pew  in  front  and  he  in  the  pew  be- 
hind her,  and  the  most  that  the  hymn- 
book  could  know  of  what  either  of  them 
felt  was  that  her  fingers  tightened  on 
its  smooth  cover  whenever  she  heard 
his  voice. 

But  she  probably  confided  some 
thought  of  her  heart  to  the  little  book 
that  had  been  her  mother's  when  she 
came  to  pack  up  her  "  things  "  a  day  or 
two  before  the  wedding — 1  mean  her 
personal  belongings — the  trifles  dear  to 
her  heart. 

For  days  the  ox-carts  had  creaked 
and  groaned  up  the  rough  hiU  roads  to 
the  Onderdonck  farm-house,  leaving 
great  loads  of  tables,  and  chairs,  and 
wardrobes,  and  chests  of  drawers,  and 
corded  boxes  that  held  hundreds  of 
yards  of  sweet-clover  scented  linen,  and 
dresses  made  by  modish  seamstresses 
in  New  York,  and  even  Uberal  gifts  from 
the  Squire's  store  of  family  silver.  But 
besides  such  things  as  these,  there  is 
always  the  pitiful  little  kit  that  a  girl 
makes  up  when  she  leaves  the  old  home- 
roof  and  takes  ship  on  the  great  sea  of 
wifehood. 

This  was  truly  a  kit,  done  up  in  the 
red  bandanna  handkerchief  that  old  Su- 
san, her  nurse  (Caesar's  wife,  in  her  hfe- 
time),  had  given  her  long  ago.  For  that 
matter,  aU  the  poor  treasures  had  been 
given  to  her.  There  was  this  little 
hymn-book,  first  of  all,  and  the  gold 
chain  and  locket  with  her  mother's  miu- 
iature.  Prudence  sometimes  looked  at 
her  mother's  portrait  and  wondered  if 
those  gentle  blue  eyes  had  not  looked 
frightened  when  the  Squire  proposed  to 
marry  them.  Then  there  were  the  em- 
ery-bag and  scissors  she  had  got  at 
school,  for  working  the  neatest  sampler, 
and  there  was  the  sampler  to  speak  for 
itself.  There  was  the  ivory  ship  that 
Ezra  Saunders  had  carved  for  her — Ezra, 
the  dry,  shrivelled  old  cobbler,  from  some 
strange,  far  place  iu  New  England,  who 


348 


A  SECOND-HAND  STORY. 


had  followed  the  sea  in  his  younger  days, 
and  whose  dark  back  room  in  the  cabin 
by  the  river-side  was  hung  with  sharks' 
teeth  and  sword-lish  spears,  and  ingen- 
iously-carved stay-bones,  with  a  smell  of 
sandal-wood  about  them  all,  wrapping 
north  and  south  and  east  and  west  ia 
one  atmosphere  of  spicy  oriental  mys- 
tery. There,  too,  was  her  collection  of 
trinkets — an  enamelled  brooch,  a  tall 
tortoise-shell  comb,  a  garnet  ring  or 
two,  and  such  modest  odds  and  ends  as 
served  her  for  jewelry.  And  all  of  these 
she  did  up  in  the  red  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief, with  a  guilty  feeling,  as  though 
she  were  deserting  her  girhsh  life  after 
an  ungrateful  fashion,  and  may  be  the 
brown  book  was  sensible  of  some  poor 
unformulated  prayers  for  the  strange 
future. 

And  so  it  came  about — for  the  con- 
tents of  the  handkerchief  went  up  to  her 
new  home  the  day  before  the  wedding 
— that  the  hymn-book  was  not  in  church 
when  she  was  married.  If  it  had  been, 
I  think  it  would  have  lain  open  at  jjage 
271,  as  old  Caesar's  bow  sHd  softly  over 
the  strings,  and  the  congregation  sang  : 

"  Thy  wife  shall  be  a  fruitful  vine, 
Thy  children  round  thy  board, 
Each,  like  a  plant  of  honor,  shine, 
And  learn  to  fear  the  Lord." 


So  now  we  have  the  brown  hymn-book 
at  home  in  the  Onderdonck  homestead, 
a  long,  low  building,  the  lower  story  of 
red  stone,  the  U2:)per  of  wood.  It  stood 
high  up  on  the  hills,  and  looked  down 
over  grassy  slopes  of  meadow  land  across 
the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  town,  to  the 
clear,  shining  Une  of  the  river,  that  ran 
in  pleasant  curves  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
follow  it. 

It  is  here  that  Prudence  begins  and 
ends  her  life.  For  the  best  of  life  be- 
gins where  she  began  in  the  old  farm- 
house, and  what  end  the  world  saw  she 
made  there. 

There  life's  new  joys  and  life's  new 
troubles  began  :  the  new  joy  of  two  liv- 
ing one  life  together  ;  and  then  the 
great  and  awful  trouble  of  child-birth — 
the  worst,  forgotten,  however,  as  she 
lay  in  Grandmother  Onderdonck's  four- 
posted  bed  and  heard  the  sharp,  small, 
querulous  wailing  from  the  next  room. 


I  think  that  was  of  a  Saturday  morning 
in  May,  and  I  am  sure  that  on  the  Sim- 
day  she  sent  Rick  to  church  to  receive 
the  congratulations  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  lay  in  her  bed  the  while,  and 
jjerhaps  turned  over  a  page  or  two  of 
the  hymn-book,  finding  a  comfort  in  its 
terror-fraught  pages  which  our  genera- 
tion might  seek  in  vain.  Then  old 
Mother  Sturt,  who  brought  all  the  town's 
babies  into  the  world,  took  the  book 
away  from  her,  for  fear  it  might  hurt 
her  dear  eyes  ;  and  she  lay  there  and 
hummed  the  familiar  airs  under  her 
breath,  and  if  the  time  was  sweet  to  her 
memory  it  mattered  little  though  the 
words  ran : 

"  Should'st  thou  condemn  my  .soul  to  hell, 
And  crush  my  flesh  to  dust, 
Heav'n  would  approve  thy  vengeance  well, 
And  earth  must  own  it  just." 

The  time  went  slowly,  lying  there  in 
the  white  waste  of  the  foui-poster  bed  ; 
but  it  came  to  an  end  in  time,  and  there 
was  a  day  when  she  went  up  the  church 
aisle  on  her  husband's  arm,  just  after 
the  sermon,  and  Dominie  Kuypers  sprin- 
kled water  on  the  head  of  the  infant, 
conceived  in  sin  and  born  in  iniquity, 
and  totally  unconscious  of  it,  while  the 
choir  sang  : 

"  Thus  Lydia  sanctified  her  house, 
When  she  received  the  word  ; 
Thus  the  believing  jailer  gave 
His  household  to  the  Lord.  ' 

There  were  other  children  after  that 
boy,  and  Prudence  found  her  days  well 
filled  ujj  with  the  little  duties  of  a  wom- 
an's life — those  little  duties  which  would 
distress  women  less  could  they  but  see 
the  grand  total  and  estimate  the  value 
of  it.  Prudence  must  have  had  some 
blessed  comprehension  of  the  worth  of 
a  woman's  work  who  does  her  duty  as 
wife  and  mother,  for  I  can  see  her  going 
about  her  daily  tasks  with  a  sweet  and 
placid  face,  and  lifting  tender  welcoming 
eyes  to  her  husband  as  he  comes  liome 
at  sunset  from  some  far  corner  of  the 
farm — those  sweet  gray  eyes  that  were 
content,  only  a  little  while  ago,  with  the 
light  of  the  sun  on  the  trees  and  the 
gay  face  of  the  summer-clad  world. 

It  was  a  serious  face,  sometimes,  that 
met  her  look,  for  Hick  was   a  man  who 


A  SECOND-HAND  STORY. 


349 


took  on  his  broad  shoulders  some  share 
of  the  world's  bui'dens  beyond  his  neces- 
sary stint.  They  had  a  troublous  time 
when  they  made  up  their  minds  to  let 
their  slaves  work  out  their  freedom.  It 
was  some  years  before  Rick  regained  bis 
popularity  among  the  neighbors  ;  he  had 
practically  manumitted  his  entire  hold- 
ing of  slaves,  and  although  such  an  act 
might  have  been  forgiven  to  mere 
benevolence,  it  was  a  crime  against  the 
community  when  it  was  dictated  by  prin- 
ciple. Rick  had  a  sad  scene  with  the 
old  Squire,  who  aU  but  cursed  him  for 
his  foreign  atheistical  notions  ;  and  even 
good  Dominie  Ku^y'pers  looked  gravely 
disappointed.  They  did  not,  in  fact, 
fully  restore  Rick  to  favor  until  it  became 
clear  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  farm  was 
paying  better  under  a  system  of  free 
labor  than  it  had  ever  paid  while  it  sup- 
ported a  horde  of  irresponsible  slaves. 
When  that  fact  was  proved  beyond  a 
doubt,  the  most  notoriously  mean  man 
in  the  county  ordered  his  slaves  to  work 
out  their  freedom  at  the  highest  market 
price  ;  and,  after  that,  the  curse  was 
taken  off  Rick  and  Prudence. 

The  shutters  of  the  old  farm-house 
are  closed.  The  broad  spread  of  fields 
is  empty  of  all  but  waving  grain  and 
nodding  corn.  The  farm-hands  stand 
about  the  kitchen  door,  looking  strange 
in  their  Sunday  clothes  of  black.  At 
the  front  door  stands  young  Jan  Onder- 
donck,  a  shapely  boy  of  eighteen,  look- 
ing out  on  the  world  with  that  white, 
blank  face  which  the  first  sight  of  death 
among  his  own  puts  on  a  boy.  He 
meets  the  neighbors  as  they  drive  up  to 
the  gate  in  swaying  carryalls  or  lumber- 
ing wagons,  and  goes  silently  before 
them  to  the  door.  They  go  in,  out  of 
the  clear,  summer  sunshine,  leaving  the 
slope  of  long,  unmown  grass,  the  beds 
of  bright  flowers,  the  tremulous  green 
beeches  behind  them,  into  the  dim,  cool 
front  sitting-room,  and  range  themselves 
along  the  wall.  Friend  bows  to  friend, 
in  a  constrained  fashion,  and  here  and 
there  are  hushed  intei'changes  of  speech. 
"  She  is  taking  it  hard,  poor  soul,"  they 
say  ;  "  but  so  quiet  and  still,  the  doctor 
was  frightened  for  her." 

Across  the  haU  he  lies,  in  the  room 
opened  only  for  company.  The  air  is 
Vol.  IV.— 36 


close  ;  the  shuttei'S  will  not  let  the  scent 
of  the  rose-bushes  enter.  His  calm  face 
looks  up  to  the  cracked,  whitewashed 
ceiling  of  the  plain  old  house  that  was 
his  home  a  few  hours  ago.  How  calm 
it  is  !  How  calm,  to  leave  behind  such 
a  void,  so  much  and  so  unconquerable 
grief !  Yet,  wotdd  we  have  the  shadow 
and  impress  of  our  sorrow  on  his  face  ? 
Good  man,  good  husband,  good  father, 
he  is  gone.  And  this  poor  face  that  lies 
here  to  tell  us  of  him,  let  us  be  thankful 
that  it  smiles  calmly  as  our  poor  bewil- 
dered eyes  look  at  it  for  the  last  time. 

The  darkest  room  in  all  the  dim, 
closed  house  is  where  Prudence  sits,  on 
the  floor  above.  There  is  a  child  at  each 
side  of  hei',  and  when  her  hands  are  not 
clasped  trembling  in  her  lap,  they  move 
to  touch  the  soft,  tear-wet  faces.  And 
now  the  eldest  son  comes  softly  into  the 
room  and  slips  his  arm  about  her,  and  a 
quick  tremor  shakes  her,  and  she  hears 
the  voice  of  the  old  minister,  standing 
upon  the  stairs,  midway  between  the 
dead  and  the  li\Tng  half  of  one  existence, 
speaking  the  words  that  part  husband 
and  wife  upon  this  earth.  There  is  a  si- 
lence, and  then  the  voices  of  the  singers 
come  with  a  far-away  sound  from  the 
rooms  below.  One  of  the  children,  with 
a  child's  poor,  helpless  effort  to  serve, 
slips  the  book  into  her  hands.  She  can- 
not open  it ;  she  could  not  see  the  page  ; 
she  does  not  need  it.  She  knows  the 
words  ;  only  two  lines  come  new  to  her 
ears — "  Nor  should  we  wish  the  hours 
more  slow,  to  keep  us  from  our  love." 

It  has  been  dropping  light  showers 
all  the  afternoon ;  showers  that  have 
caught  the  first  swaths  of  the  cut  grass. 
Then  there  has  been  the  brief  glow  of  a 
high-hung  rainbow,  and  the  warm  sun 
has  come  to  rest  a  few  minutes  on  the 
long  heaps  of  grass,  and  to  distil  from 
them  an  exquisite  attar  of  new-mown 
hay.  The  sun  is  behind  the  hills  now  ; 
the  front  of  the  old  farm-house  where 
Prudence  is  sitting  in  shade.  She  looks; 
across  her  flower-beds,  down  the  long 
slope  to  where,  beyond  town  and  trees, 
there  is  still  a  warm  light  on  the  wind- 
ing Passaic,  that  goes,  presently,  creep- 
ing up  the  further  hills,  and  last  of  aU 
resting  on  the  white  houses  of  a  little 
settlement  that  perched  on  those  hills — 


350 


FIRST  HARFESTS. 


how  many  years  ago?  Prudence  for- 
gets :  many  years  ago,  yet  long  since 
the  one  date  from  which  she  reckons 
all  her  days.  Rick  never  saw  it.  The 
woods  were  there  when  he  died. 

For  thirty  years  Prudence  has  seen 
the  sun  rise  and  set  since  he  died. 
Thirty  summers  she  has  tendered  the 
garden  he  dug  for  her  in  their  honey- 
moon. The  house  he  left  empty  is  stUl 
home  to  her,  to  his  children,  and  to  his 
children's  children.  The  fires  have  long 
gone  out  in  the  house  where  she  was 
born  ;  she  looks  now  over  the  smokeless 
chimney  ;  but  his  home  is  still  as  he 
would  wish  to  find  it  were  he  coming 
home  this  evening  across  the  sweet 
fields. 

Prudence,  sitting  there,  sees  his  grand- 
son coming  homeward  now.  She  knows 
the  broad  shoulders  and  the  springy 
gait.  She  has  always  called  the  boy 
Richard,  though  everyone  else  calls  him 
Rick.  She  knows,  too,  the  girlish  figure 
by  his  side  ;  she  knows  that  he  will  go 
past  the  gate  and  through  the  woods  to 
the  Van  Vorst  farm.  Yes,  on  he  goes, 
bending  his  tall  head  to  talk  with  Mary 
Van  Vorst. 

Prudence's  face  is  sweet  and  her  eyes 
are  patient ;  but  who  shall  blame  her  if 
the  longing  of  her  heart  springs  up  and 
knows  not  day  or  years  ?  What  days  or 
years  shall  touch  that  immortal  youth  ? 
Has  the  summer  grown  old  ?  Has  the 
green  of  the  world  grown  dull,  and  the 
gold  of  the  Sim  grown  dim  ?    He  walked 


with  her  then,  and  the  hay  smelt  as  it 
smeUs  to-day  ;  the  twihght  air  grew  ten- 
der and  misty  about  them,  the  murmur- 
of  woodland  life  made  the  cool  darkness 
shrill,  and  the  young  stars  came  out  in 
the  vague  blue  of  the  sky. 

What  has  gro^\•n  old?  What  is 
changed  in  her  heart  that  it  should  not 
cry  out  for  love  and  joy?  Why  may 
she  not  feel  his  strong  arm  about  her 
shoulders,  hear  his  voice  in  her  ears  ? 
Why  may  she  not  look  up  now  and  see 
his  face  bent  over  hers,  love  speaking  to 
love  in  their  eyes. 

A  small  brown  book  sHps  from  her 
hand  and  falls  upon  the  ground  ;  but 
she  does  not  need  the  printed  page. 
She  knows  the  hymn  by  heart.  The 
bassoon  and  the  fiddle  play  softly  in  the 
choir  of  the  old  chtirch  ;  she  hears  them 
faintly,  for  her  heart  is  fluttering ;  her 
hands  are  cold,  there  is  a  mist  of  tears 
in  her  eyes  as  she  looks  up  into  her  hus- 
band's face,  standing  before  the  altar. 

It  must  have  been  on  some  evening 
such  as  this  that  the  little  book  dropped 
from  Prudence's  hands  for  the  last  time. 
For  unless  it  fell  there,  and  lay  among 
the  flowei's,  and  the  flowers  were  un- 
tended  after  her  death,  so  that  some 
stranger  picked  it  up  and  took  it  away 
as  a  thing  of  no  account,  I  cannot  tell 
why  her  children  let  their  mother's  book 
find  its  way  to  a  second-hand  book- 
shop. I  am  glad  that  in  the  end  it  did 
not  fall  into  the  hands  of  some  one  who 
might  not  have  known  her  story. 


FIRST  HARVESTS. 
By  F.  J.  Stimson. 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

ARTHUR    HAS    A   LITTLE   DINNER. 

RTHUR  was  thinking 
of  getting  up  a  little 
dinner  for  some  of  his 
most  worthy  friends 
and  most  valuable  ac- 
quaintances, and  he  was 
sitting  in  the  reading- 
room  of  his  favorite  club,  trying  to  make 
up  his  list.  There  was  a  reception  at 
the  Livingstones  that  afternoon,  and  he 


purposed  going  ;  but  this  deuce  of  a  list 
took  much  more  time  than  one  would 
suppose  jDossible.  He  threw  impatient- 
ly into  the  waste-jjaper  basket  the  third 
tentative  sketch  which  had  proved  im- 
possible, and  looked  at  his  watch.  The 
cards  said  half-past  three — "to  meet 
Miss  Holyoke  " — it  was  indeed  the  first 
time  Gracie  was  to  appear  out  of  her 
deep  mourning. 

Arthur  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
after  three  already.  He  had  thought  of 
going  early,  before    the   people  came  ; 


